Dependable
by ADDyke
Summary: Lestrade is shocked to discover that the brilliant private detective he's been working with has a drug problem. As the issue comes to a head, he is determined to help him and he has his own reasons for wanting to.


Fic: Dependable  
Author: Cat (addyke)

Summary: Lestrade is shocked to discover that the brilliant private detective he's been working with has a drug problem. As the issue comes to a head, he is determined to help him and he has his own reasons for wanting to.

Warning: Descriptions of drug and alcohol problems, medical emergency

Disclaimer: The world of Sherlock Holmes was created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and BBC-sponsored fanboys Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss created 'Sherlock'. I am making no money whatsoever from this.

* * *

This was a conversation that DI Lestrade was dreading.

He stood in the stairwell outside the ex-council flat that was currently being rented by one Sherlock Holmes, having been putting off knocking on the front door for the past minute and a half.

Just as he raised his hand to knock, the door opened to reveal Sherlock in pyjamas and a dressing gown.

"Are you going to loiter in the corridor all night?" Sherlock asked.

Lestrade followed him into the flat, shaking his head. Of course Sherlock had figured out that he was standing there.

There was no hall - Lestrade stepped straight into the small living room. Normally rooms in this type of building were devoid of personality, but with its mismatched furniture, books and papers everywhere with no obvious system of filing, and newspaper clippings, photographs and print-outs blu-tacked to the walls hiding most of the utilitarian Magnolia paintwork, this could only be the home of Sherlock Holmes.

There was an open violin case sitting on the window sill - the gleaming instrument inside was obviously well used and greatly loved, even to Lestrade's untrained eye.

"I didn't know you played." Lestrade said, tilting his head towards the window sill.

Sherlock was on the sofa, hunched over a laptop balanced on a wooden crate that he had been using as a coffee table. He failed to acknowledge Lestrade's comment - in fact he seemed to be ignoring his guest completely.

"Any chance of a cup of tea?" Lestrade asked - he knew Sherlock had little regard for most social niceties but he did need Sherlock to engage in conversation before bringing up the purpose of his visit.

Sherlock tilted his head towards his kitchen. "Kettle's through there."

He made no effort to actually get up to make his guest a cup of tea, so Lestrade went into Sherlock's tiny kitchen in hope of finding a clean cup, a teabag and enough courage to start this very uncomfortable conversation.

He had only met the young detective six months before, when one of his private cases became spectacularly entangled in an ongoing murder investigation and Sherlock had managed to solve both in less than 12 hours.

Lestrade was astounded as he struggled to keep up with Sherlock's reasoning - the man was brilliant. He was also rude, arrogant, abrasive and completely immune to other people's feelings. Yet Lestrade had never seen anyone with such an ability to see the smallest detail and understand how it told a story, how it was all interconnected.

As Sherlock Holmes left his office that first night, grinning as he texted his private client, Lestrade knew that this was probably the most amazing man he had ever met.

And also the most annoying, as it turned out. Over the next few months Sherlock, who had somehow gotten Lestrade's mobile number, texted him constantly with unsolicited (yet useful) advice about his current cases, peppered with the odd thinly-veiled insult to his competence and general intelligence. Lestrade had no idea how Sherlock was even getting his information from but the advice, when he buried his pride enough to take it, always paid off.

Sherlock's advice was paying off so much that Lestrade had taken to showing him the odd case file or crime scene photograph. Even a crime scene or two, once forensics had finished their bit. Sherlock would always protest at this, accusing the forensics team of destroying everything of note - yet he was still able to spot vital clues that Lestrade wouldn't have even realised were there unless Sherlock had pointed them out.

Sherlock had been so crucial to his latest case that Lestrade had insisted on him joining the team for post-work drinks. Sherlock, never one for social gatherings, didn't say a word (Lestrade realised this was an attempt to be polite) and left quickly after the first round. He had been glad that Sherlock had at least made an effort until he realised something had fallen out of Sherlock's coat pocket. Something that concerned him greatly.

Lestrade made his tea, careful not to disturb the delicate distillation kit sharing the workspace with the kettle, and returned to the living room. Sherlock hadn't moved whatsoever in the time he was away.

"So, have you lived here long?" He asked, desperately trying to engage Sherlock in conversation.

Sherlock looked up from his computer at last. "You know I despise small talk, Lestrade. Why are you here? You are obviously avoiding a conversation you don't want to have."

"Right as usual, Sherlock." Lestrade sighed before revealing the small plastic bag of white powder that had fallen out of Sherlock's pocket. "Tell me this isn't what I think it is."

He had to give Sherlock credit - he managed to hide the shock of being caught out from his face completely.

"I'm sure you know exactly what that is." Sherlock said without any emotion in his voice.

"Damn it, Sherlock! I thought God had given you some sense to go with those brains of yours! How could you be so stupid?"

"Stupid?" Sherlock picked up on that one word instantly.

"If you are wasting your money and snorting that shit up your nose, you are bloody stupid. I thought better of you."

"I'm not some overpaid yuppie doing lines in the back room in a high-class club, so get that image out of your head this instant."

Lestrade grabbed Sherlock's arm and rolled up his dressing gown sleeve. The evidence he didn't want to find was right there.

"So you think it's okay because you're injecting instead - what else are you taking?"

"Am I under arrest?"

"Damn it, Sherlock! I've just found out you're doing Class-A drugs - I'm worried about you!"

"Worried about me?"

"Yes! It's not just the drugs that are dangerous - the other risks as well..."

"I always use a reputable source, I always use clean needles and dispose of them properly and I always purify my stock before use." Sherlock nodded towards the distillation set in the kitchen. "I know what I'm doing."

"Spoken like a true addict. Deluding yourself that you're in control."

"Well, you should know."

"Excuse me?"

"Just because you're a recovering alcoholic does not mean you understand me. You don't know me at all."

Lestrade looked at him in shock as he spit out his greatest secret like it was simple, common known fact.

"How could you possibly…?"

"I had my theories, but your behaviour in the pub tonight confirmed it." Sherlock's eyes lit up, like they usually did when he reeled off his observations. "You insisted on getting the drinks and going to the bar even though Gregson had offered first - this was to ensure you were not served alcohol. Yet you didn't want your colleagues to know you weren't drinking, hence your gin-and-tonic was just tonic water…"

"Stop it, Sherlock! Just stop it!" Lestrade interrupted the string of deductions. "Yes, I've got a drinking problem."

Sherlock smirked, that look of smug satisfaction when he was proved right.

"So I know what it is like to nearly lose everything because of a stupid addiction." Lestrade went on. "And you have too much going for you for you to give it all up for some drug."

"That's why you haven't arrested me - you want to help me!" Sherlock said in a patronising tone. "Well, sorry, Detective Inspector, but I neither wish nor require your assistance in this matter."

Lestrade realised that he wasn't getting through to him, not tonight. He went to leave.

"I'm confiscating this." He said, putting the small bag of cocaine back into his pocket.

"I would expect nothing less."

Lestrade stopped with his hand on the front door handle. "And if I ever see you and suspect you're under the influence, I will arrest you - that's a promise."

"Why would I be if I'm working?" Sherlock said with a hint of surprise. He turned back to his laptop. "Goodnight, Lestrade."

* * *

Lestrade ended up working with Sherlock more and more. He would ask for help with his own investigations and Sherlock treated him as his unofficial police contact when his cases revealed a criminal element.

Not once had he suspected that Sherlock was high when he was working, and Sherlock was acting like that whole conversation never happened.

He still had his worries. Especially as there was times he wouldn't see Sherlock for weeks on end.

He knew it all had to come to a head eventually.

* * *

"You didn't have to run down the suspect like that." Lestrade said as he approached Sherlock, who was now leaning heavily against one of the patrol cars. "You could actually let us do our jobs. Thanks anyway, though."

A slight nod of Sherlock's head was the only acknowledgement he got as Sherlock let the car bear most of his weight. His hair was heavy with sweat as he forced air into his lungs in fast, ineffective breaths.

"You still out of breath?" Lestrade joked. "I thought you were the fit, young thing!"

The quip turned sour as soon as he said it, as Sherlock moved his right hand to clutch at the left side of his chest.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" Lestrade placed a supporting arm around his shoulders. He could feel Sherlock's body heat radiating like a furnace, even through his shirt and jacket.

"Palpitation - I think…" Sherlock whispered between laboured breaths, and that scared Lestrade.

He had never known Sherlock to admit to doubt; he didn't think, he knew.

Lestrade guided Sherlock to a sitting position on the ground, leaning him against the front wheel of the vehicle.

"Have you ever had this before?" he asked, undoing the ridiculous scarf that Sherlock had recently taken to wearing.

Sherlock shook his head feebly, still clutching at his chest.

"Hopkins! Call an ambulance!" Lestrade shouted to one of his colleagues. "Try to keep calm, Sherlock."

The fact that Sherlock didn't object to this comment in any way scared Lestrade even more.

* * *

The sound of an umbrella tip tapping against the laminated floor and the whiff of expensive, custom-made aftershave informed Sherlock that his brother was in the room, so he decided against opening his eyes.

He doubted he could open them even if he wanted to, so complete was his exhaustion. At least his heart wasn't threatening to burst out of his rib cage anymore.

Mycroft was talking to someone, presumably a doctor, in hushed tones. Sherlock could only pick up a few words - arrhythmia, toxicology results...

There went his big secret.

And there was the sheer amount of condescending disappointment in Mycroft's voice.

"What have you done to yourself, little brother?"

Sherlock would have rolled his eyes but sleep overtook him again.

* * *

The next time Sherlock awoke, his brother was no longer there. But somebody else was. He could hear the scratch of pen on paper (unsteady, as if the paper was being balanced on someone's lap) and smell a whiff of slightly stale tobacco smoke (Marlboro Reds to be exact).

Lestrade.

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, squinting at the harsh fluorescent overhead lighting. He turned his head slightly, towards the only window in the room. West-facing, judging by the few landmarks he could make out, with the weak winter sun shining directly into the room.

Early afternoon then. How long had he been asleep?

"Hello. You're awake." Lestrade said, putting down his pen down and the file he was looking at down on the floor.

"Obviously." Sherlock said, trying to focus his eyes.

"How are you feeling?"

Sherlock didn't answer, instead stating "My brother was here."

"The nurses said he had to go for a few hours. He should be back for evening visiting hours."

"Right." Sherlock went to sit up but found himself impeded by both his own weakness and the leads of an ECG machine. He tried to pull the sticky pads from his chest.

"Stop it, Sherlock!" Lestrade shouted "What are you doing?"

"Discharging myself before my brother gets back, of course."

"Discharging yourself? You're joking! You're not going anywhere until the doctors say you can!"

Sherlock tried to sit up again, grasping the bedrail. "I'm leaving."

"You can barely hold up your own head! Sherlock, you nearly had a heart attack last night! And we both know why!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I am not staying here. My brother will…"

Sherlock no longer had the strength to hold himself up, and relaxed back against the pillow.

"He will what? Sherlock - you may act like you're a toddler but you're a fully grown man. Your brother can't force you to do anything."

Sherlock glared at him. "You haven't met him. You really have no idea."

"What's he going to do? Make you get help? Have you thought for one second that you might need it?" Lestrade asked, getting right to the issue.

"Not this again."

"Yes, this again. How much cocaine have you taken in the past week, before I called you in? You are lying in a hospital bed. How much is it going to take for you to realise you have a problem?"

"I do not have a problem." Sherlock denied. "And your saviour complex is getting insufferable."

"I may have a saviour complex, but you need saving from yourself."

"Do I now? And why is that your responsibility?"

"Let me tell you a story, since you're in no fit state but to lie there and listen to me…" Lestrade said sternly.

"Lestrade, please shut up."

"No, I won't."

Sherlock let out a sigh of resignation. "Go on, let's hear your bedtime story. Get it over with so I can discharge myself."

"Well, then. A man falls into a hole and can't get out. A doctor walks by and the man shouts for help. A doctor writes him a prescription, throws it down to him and walks away. Then a priest walks by the hole, the man still shouting for help. The priest offers up a prayer over him, and goes on his way."

Lestrade leant closer to Sherlock, and spoke softer.

"Then a friend walks by. The man shouts 'Hey, mate - I'm stuck. Can you help me out?' His friend jumps straight into the hole. The man is stunned. 'Why did you do that?' He asks. 'Now we're both stuck down here.' The friend just smiles at him and says 'Yes. But I've been down this hole before and I know the way out.'"

"I never liked fables. Or parables." Sherlock said.

"I guess I was trying to explain what you call my 'saviour complex'. The bottle didn't help me anymore than the needle is going to help you." Lestrade leant back into the chair.

"Do not compare me to you, Lestrade."

"You're right." He let out an uncomfortable laugh. "What I wouldn't give for the fraction of the insight that you bring to a crime scene! And I can't stand by and watch someone as brilliant as you destroy himself."

Sherlock fidgeted with one of the ECG leads.

"I understand completely if you can't accept your brother's help." Lestrade continued "Family's… well, too close sometimes. But maybe you'll accept mine."

"Why? Why do you care so much?" Sherlock looked him in disbelief.

"No matter your motives, you do good work. And you are too good at what you do for you to die of an avoidable heart attack before you turn thirty."

"I wouldn't let it get that far." Sherlock said.

Lestrade was unconvinced. "Look around you, Sherlock. I'm sure you didn't intend to end up here."

There was a long moment of silence as Sherlock looked out the window at the city's skyline.

"I am truly insufferable when I'm bored." He said quietly.

Lestrade nodded - he had guessed boredom was Sherlock's main trigger.

"You will probably regret offering to help me."

Lestrade smiled. "You know what, Sherlock. I don't think I will."

* * *

Five Years Later

In the bottom drawer of Lestrade's filing cabinet there was a bottle of very fine whiskey that he was given to celebrate his twenty years service in the Metropolitan Police.

That was several years ago - he had relegated the gift to the depths of that drawer and tried to forget about it.

Most days that was easy, most days he didn't even look at the bottom drawer. In fact, Lestrade could count on one hand the number of times he had opened it since the whiskey took up residence in there.

The bottle remained unopened.

Tonight, however, Lestrade found his gaze being drawn to the bottom drawer.

One of those days. A stabbing in a park. Victim was only fifteen. The perpetuator, arrested barely an hour later, was a year younger.

The newspapers the next morning would probably report it as the latest example of gang-related knife crime, together with several sanctimonious editorials. All Lestrade knew was that a kid just killed another kid.

Teenagers killing each other over nothing, leaving devastation in their wake, was one thing guaranteed to keep Lestrade up at night.

His revelry was broken by the sound of an evidence bag dropping on his desk. He looked up and into the piercing eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

"The evidence from the Brett case." Sherlock said, and Lestrade looked at him in shock. Sherlock never willingly gave back evidence - Lestrade had a long list of tricks to make him give back evidence he had 'borrowed' without asking.

"Italian or Indian?"

"Excuse me?"

"You obviously haven't eaten all day and cases such as the one you've been dealing with usually trigger your insomnia, especially since your wife is unlikely to be coming home tonight." Sherlock said. "Anyway, I need to discuss something with you so Italian or Indian?"

Lestrade tried to ignore the veiled comment about the state of his marriage. "I suppose I should be encouraging Angelo to stay on the straight and narrow."

He rose from his chair and grabbed his coat from the stand. Sherlock was engrossed in his mobile, thumbs moving furiously over the keys. He felt a sudden stab of gratitude for Sherlock turning up. He didn't want to be alone tonight, and somehow Sherlock knew that. Just as he had a certain sense for when Sherlock was climbing up the walls with boredom, although John Watson now bore the blunt of those moods, poor sod.

"Where's John tonight?" He asked. Since Sherlock had moved into Baker Street, he and his flatmate were almost inseparable.

"He's got a date." Sherlock didn't bother to hide the distain.

"Just the two of us for dinner then."

"She's going to break up with him." Sherlock said. "John will probably join us later."

Lestrade laughed at this matter of fact statement. "I suppose you negated to tell John this before he wasted his money taking her out."

"John has made it quite clear that he doesn't want my input into his love life."

Lestrade shook his head and smiled "I can't say I blame him!"

A hour or so later, Lestrade was tucking into a very good spaghetti carbonara as Sherlock explained his latest private case to him whilst picking at his risotto. Lestrade quickly realised that the reason why Sherlock needed to speak to him about it; he had obviously managed to severely annoy the Birmingham CID during the course of his investigation and Lestrade knew he would have ring his counterparts in the West Midlands Police and smooth out a few feathers. He was getting rather good at that.

John arrived and sat in the spare seat, calling out his order to Angelo.

"Don't ask!" He exclaimed. "And don't you say a word, Sherlock!"

Lestrade watched the pair of them bicker, managing to disguise his laughter as an snort. Sherlock caught his eye and gave him the tiniest nod of acknowledgment.

He felt the last of tension release from his chest. He was going to be alright.

They both were.

* * *

N.B.: The 'Man falls into a hole' story has been lovingly borrowed from 'The West Wing' episode 'Noel'.


End file.
